


Malcontents

by GloriaMundi



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Community: au_bingo, Historical, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-22
Updated: 2011-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:13:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames and Arthur's encounter during the UK General Strike (1926)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malcontents

"There's a perfectly good battle in the Commercial Road," said Bill, coming into the club with a grin on his face and mud on his boots.

Eames felt himself sinking into the ineffable ennui of early afternoon. He'd had a good luncheon, but it had been spoilt by a great deal of flatulent talk about the latest developments with the TUC. For this he'd left Paris, rushing to the aid of a mother country that was not, as had been advertised, in the grip of armed insurrection, but could do with a hand protecting food deliveries from striking workers until the unions came to their senses and backed down. The Defence Corps, in which Eames had enrolled himself, was frightfully dull after the cafes and bars of Montparnasse. Revolution and rebellion would at least have been something to _do_.

His blood -- somewhat adulterated with gin -- rose at the notion of battle: you had only to look at the French Revolution to recognise the dangers of permitting the working classes to revolt -- and he trotted after the rest of the Corps-men.

On this occasion, at least, the lorry with its bright Defence Corps paintwork was not pelted with rubbish. Bill drove fast and showily, and the brakes howled as he drew up inches from another lorry, this one overturned. There was a steel hawser stretched between two lampposts; there were a number of bareheaded youths shouting obscenities at a policeman, and on the other side of the hawser a group of men, stevedores in flat caps and shabby suits, squaring up against a party of nervous-looking volunteers.

"Charge!" cried Bill, and they all did.

Fists and boots was the order of the day: Eames had been taught to box at school, but he'd picked up some less savoury skills in the backstreets of the 14th arrondissement, and he was drunk enough to use them. This was war, or at least as close to it as he and his pals -- born too late for Flanders fields -- were likely to get. This was the opening battle of the war against the working classes, and Eames was proud to be a part of it. He piled in, giving as good as he got: better, for first one and then another striking docker went down under his fists. If he was hit himself, he didn't feel it. Maybe this was what they meant by battle-lust.

"Look out!" he heard someone yell, in a coarse common nasal voice. "It's the coppers!"

Eames turned, craning his neck, to see a lorry drawing up to the rear of the mob. The crowd was already breaking around Eames, and he swung round to hasten them on their way with a blow or two. It was sheer bad luck that someone's elbow connected with his temple, dazing him and knocking him to the tarmac.

He didn't lose consciousness. His vision blurred, that was all: but someone was pulling him to the pavement, out of the way of the fleeing dock-workers and their heavy boots. Eames blinked, tried to get a hand up to rub his eyes, and found himself restrained.

"Just sit still for a minute," said a man's voice. "You were knocked on the head: better safe than sorry."

Eames blinked again, trying to focus. Somewhere off to his right he could hear policemen rounding up the stragglers, and Bill was calling chaps back to the lorry.

"That's your lot," said his Good Samaritan. "Want a hand?" It wasn't an educated voice, but nor was it as rough as the voices he'd heard swearing and jeering during the battle. Still, Eames had to face up to the facts: that the arm supporting him was clad in poor-quality wool, and that the man who'd pulled him from the fracas smelt of tobacco, beer and some indefinable chemical odour. He had, in short, been rescued by the enemy.

"Why the hell are you helping me?" said Eames, trying to get the man's face into focus. Dark hair slicked back -- doubtless with soap and water -- good bones marred by a blooming bruise on his right cheekbone, a slight wry smile.

"Brotherhood of man?" suggested his Samaritan. "Common decency?"

"Your lot don't seem much for common decency," observed Eames.

"They're not 'my lot'," said the man coldly. "I sympathise with their cause -- not a penny off the pay, not a second on the day, and all that -- but _our_ goals are considerably broader in scope."

"'Our' goals?" enquired Eames. He'd identified that chemical smell now: he recognised it from cellars and backrooms in Paris. Printer's ink.

"Have you read Marx?"

Eames groaned. "I have." It was not an experience he cared to repeat: on the other hand, his Samaritan was remarkably fine-figured and appealing, for a working-class chap. There might be some fun to be had here.

"I have some pamphlets in my room," said the Samaritan. "If you'd care to find out a little more about the Communist movement in England."

"I barely know you," said Eames faintly. "And I think it's only fair to warn you that I regard Marx as a dangerous lunatic."

"I'm Arthur," said the fellow, with a grin that showed straight white teeth. "And I'll be happy to point out the error of your ways. Actually," he went on, glancing away from Eames, "I've written some pieces myself."

"A writer?" said Eames, pushing himself up to sit unsupported. "As it happens, so am I."

"Really? Perhaps I've read --"

"I doubt it," said Eames, already second-guessing himself. "I write for very ... specialised readership."

"'From each according to his ability,'" said Arthur with a meaningful look, and after a moment Eames recognised the beginning of that hackneyed epigram.

"Well, Arthur," said Eames, one hand on the brickwork to lever himself upright. "If you ever feel the urge for literature of an uplifting -- of a _Parisian_ flavour -- then please do seek me out. I may be found at the Fitzroy, on Charlotte Street."

And then he knew he'd miscalculated, because Arthur's slow sweet smile told him that his caution was unfounded.

"Perhaps," said Arthur, "you could come up for a cup of tea and give me some advice. About publishing."

"Publishing," echoed Eames. "I'd be delighted."

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> The battle of Commercial Street is lifted, sans apology, from _Brideshead Revisited_.
> 
> I really did mean to write a cheerful tale about Eames swigging cocktails in Fitzrovia. Honest.


End file.
